none of it was real
by Wenchicus Thoticus
Summary: They fill the gaps in each other's lives. Intro is set after Ozai's ascent to Fire Lord. Everything else is post-canon. Ya like angst and softcore porn? This is the fic for you.
1. 0 not her

**AN:** Serious content from Wenchicus Thoticus? What?

morrow.

a gray morning filters inside as he gradually comes to. the form beside him, in the recesses of his mind he has the knowledge, the memory, that it is not her. for his own sake, he pushes it away, lazily yet actively confines the thoughts. he takes comfort in the warmth that emanates from the figure, the bare skin on his, the rhythmic, gentle breathing.

if he focuses on this, his illusory peacefulness, hazy happiness, those sensations will not abandon him so soon in his liminal, sleepy state. he has not done it for years now, but his hand, its muscle memory acting without a conscious decision on his part, snakes around the other form's back, finds silky hair and rubs it between two fingers. it takes him by surprise, he had forgotten how he would do that. with her. he burrows deeper into the figure's chest, repressing the questions that arise as he continues to gain awareness. he meets hard muscle instead of smooth softness, a larger body is curved around him, not how it is supposed to be.

arms wrap enclose him, hold him tighter. is the other awake? the sudden movement coaxes a long, shuddering breath from him, he knows distantly that he should be afraid, but the emotion that comes is one of security, his sigh one of relief, of completion, as if he'd had a good cry, was exhaling to calm himself after finishing. he cups the head in his palm. the hair is hers, is it not? it feels the same. almost. the breathing is hers, is it not the sound he heard first thing every morning, last thing at night, for so many years? almost. he can hide the lurking knowledge from himself if he just stays like this.

if he only recognizes what he wants to, he can pretend that anything is true.

—

evening.

they have arrived, remarks one of his men.

it is as if they are preparing for battle. talks, they were promised, nonviolence. what a shallow mercy they had shown his people, not to slaughter the rest on the spot.

still. tension grows as the ships that tower on the horizon draw ever-closer, now reaching the dock. the fear that hangs over the village like a dark fog breeds mistrust, a belief that they will fail to uphold their promise of peace. like animals, surely, they can smell the lingering terror in this den that they have ravaged time and time again.

it's times like these that he wishes that someone else would take up the mantle of leadership, responsibility. he cannot be a coward. they are counting on him. even if it means that he gives up his homeland, he will do everything in his power to ensure that they never hurt any of his people again.

the walkway lowers and steam billows out. he knows that they are doing this to strike fear into his heart, and it is working. the mist swirls, sending him a message written in nature's own language, _this is what we will do to you, you will burn and vanish with the wind. slaughtered and forgotten._

the steam clears, reveals the figure behind it. he hasn't heard much about this new leader, didn't know what he was expecting. was this it? he doesn't know. they are all the same, it doesn't matter anyways.

—

night.

stripped of clothing, stripped of their titles. he's sweating under the other's touch, he is burning with fear, with desire, with the agony of pretending it's her. the other's fingers leave aching, trembling trails on his skin, and the path of his mouth down his neck makes him weak in the knees. he hasn't felt this since it really _was_ her.

weak.

the intrusion inside of him, he can't pretend it's her, so he focuses on the general ecstasy overtaking him, anything except the source of his traitorous pleasure. their damp bodies are locked together, the panting heavy in one ear. he rocks back and forth in time with the other, imagining that he's the one quickening the breathing, his actions bringing about the quiet moans that interject the other's sounds.

he grips the other just as tightly as the other grips him. nails dig into shoulders, sweat plasters hair to flesh, the room is too hot. it's not pretty, it's not clean. it's intimate, it's desperate, and it's almost gentle. the other's head turns, surprises him with a hasty kiss on the cheek, a reassurance. he returns it, the same motion, the same repressed hurriedness.

the other is pretending just as much as he is.

he doesn't notice the exact moment that he loses control, only that one moment he's holding it together, and then at some point he can't filter the animalistic jumble of thoughts and emotions from the noises that stream from his mouth. he knows that he can't silence himself, so he doesn't try. but no one can hear this. no one can see this, none of his people can see him like this, he knows that the other shares this stance. what would his children think if they were to enter, watch him screaming their dead mother's name, the enemy's cock buried in his ass?

yet he persists in his game of ignorance. the breathing is hers, it is her shoulders he grips, her hair, her skin against his. oddly, it is easy enough to ignore the intrusion inside of him, rather, it is the little things that catch him off-guard. the other's erratic thrusts, their bodies are unsynchronized, they are not used to each other, do not know each other's rhythms. his smell, it is bitter, of something smoldering and dying, and it cuts through the layer of sweat and fear that imbues the room. he shuts his eyes so that he doesn't have to see the other, he can block out that dimension entirely, but facial hair brushes his temple, his cheek, his neck, and when he shifts his hands, the flesh below him is rigid, hard, and muscled. there is no softness anywhere.

it ends. the foreign sensation of warm liquid where it shouldn't be jolts him back to reality, it hits him full in the face that _it's not her_ , but the other doesn't seem to have the same revelation, kissing him almost absently and failing to register the unyielding stiffness of his lips. he keeps his eyes closed, now more than ever unable to face how it's not her.

—

evening.

I don't wish to use force, but you are leaving me little choice. don't waste my time, chieftain. I didn't come here not to get what I want, he says. the other is leering, he is formidable, commanding. compared to him, what was he?

he can't do this anymore, they have covered countless conditions, negotiating for hours, and he has already conceded so much more than he ever wanted to. frustration, anger, rage that has been building up wells up through his lungs, like he is shooting venom, he releases it. he doesn't care, he hates this man and he hates everyone he represents. he speaks, you cannot ask for more than what you have now taken. you have taken, no, you have stolen, all I will let you steal. enough is enough. don't you know what you've done. you people, how much pain you have brought us all. you have killed so many, without mercy, and you have this audacity to ask us for sacrifice after sacrifice. do you know what it's like? to lose so much, to lose your family, your wife.

vicious fury flickers in the other's eyes like firelight, but he seems to have landed a harshly personal blow. as if he has been physically struck, the other recoils in startled pain, but strikes back, seizes him by the throat. heat blisters his neck where the fingers squeeze, and if he hadn't been consumed by such terror, he would have cursed his reckless stupidity.

the other does something, runs his free hand back through his hair like she would have done. he sees her everywhere now, in everyone, everything, and he is disgusted by how he sees her in him, even if it's just for one instant, in one trivial mannerism. he reaches to touch the other's face, an instinct he should've overridden, but he can't. the other shuts his eyes, leans into it, the aggression drains from his features. the burning hand releases him from its death grip.

I had to do a lot of things I regret to get where I am, you know, says the other. from his hair, he tugs lose his crown. the wound is still fresh for him, it hasn't been any longer than three weeks, and as much as he wants to, he hasn't let himself feel anything yet.

then you know what it's like, he says. they are just two imperfect reflections of each other.

—

night.

please, stay with me? he begs the other. lying beside him in the low light, he traces his jawbone with a finger. I want to remember what it's like to sleep next to someone.

the other obliges. they'll just say that negotiations ran long. in a way, they did. no one will dare disturb them.

—

morrow.

I don't want to leave, whispers the other. they are still curled around each other, in the bleary state just before waking as the gray morning light fills the room. the words aren't meant for him, but he pretends that it is her, returning to him from the afterlife for just one night.

I know, he says, and kisses the memory of her on the forehead, looks into the eyes that aren't hers.

will I see you again?

it can't happen, he murmurs. it can't happened ever again. he feels like a traitor, and he knows that he should be scared. they are enemies, both at their most vulnerable. he could kill the other right now, he knows that an extra spear rests beneath the bed, maybe he can get to it without him noticing.

but it's stupid. they're not leaders, representatives of a people right now. they're just men filling the gaps in each other's lives. the other runs a hand through his hair, kisses the top of his head.

I'm sorry, says the other. he's apologizing to his own memory, but he also gets the sense that it's for what his people have done to the world, to each individual family, to him.

it's okay, he says softly.

it's not okay.

I really ought to leave, the other insists, reluctance dragging down his voice. neither of them want to let go of their memories, but this time, at least, they can give them a proper sendoff.

let me say goodbye, he extends awkwardly. he hadn't been able to give her a proper farewell. he hadn't known the end was coming. he doesn't know exactly how things were for the other, but he needs to do this.

the other chokes up as he agrees. it's one of the long, gentle kisses, there's passion in it, but instead of lust, it's sorrow. a tear rolls down his cheek, and he doesn't care that his enemy sees him cry. because in the moment, they aren't enemies, nor are they substitutes, memories. the other is just a man, one who's suffered loss just as he has. a loss he'll never know about, one different from his own, but a loss nonetheless. he stops seeing her in him, and instead he sees himself, and he sees another human. an unknowable reflection. because in the moment, he stops kissing her memory, and kisses the other. just a man. stripped of his clothes, bare to the world, stripped of his title, defenceless. just a man.

the other stands up, and his mind screams for the touch to return, he doesn't want it to end. he watches him dress and become a stranger again, an enemy.

goodbye, he says.

the other other's eyes are red from crying. it is the last trace he sees of the naked, exposed, and vulnerable man he had spent the night with.

goodbye, says the other. if they see each other again, it will never be like this.

he doesn't know why he feels so empty and broken once the other leaves. it's almost like losing her all over again, tearing open a wound that was just beginning to heal.

but it wasn't her. none of it was real anyways.


	2. 1 ugly soul

**AN:** Against my better judgment, I've decided to make this longer than I'd originally intended. Whoops.

1\. ugly soul

years later.

evening.

frost eats at the weathered stone, storms have come and gone, frigid nights and howling winds have made their attempts to take it, yet still it stands. of the slabs poking out from under the snow, mockingly mirroring the new lives of plants first stretching up to greet sunlight, it is recent. in time the inscription will fade, it will grow as unreadable as the stones that have lain here for longer than anyone can remember, centuries back, maybe millennia. time will swallow whole this marker, and each day pushes it further and further into the past.

this is what he fears: that he will forget. memories already slip away, too subtly for him to notice. he steps back to glimpse the whole picture, the whole timeline, and he thinks: it has already been so long?

the familiarity of this place is alien, it is the first time visiting this sea of the dead since he has returned home. peace at last reigns, yet the approaching footsteps, heavy and graceless in the snow, alert him as to how temporary that could be if he fails to stay strong. do what he said he'd do.

the overwhelming flood of memories and feelings that emanate from this place already threaten him, weaken his resolve. how easy it would be to embrace failure.

—

days earlier.

sometimes there is beauty tucked away within the ugliest of things. a reeking trash-strewn alleyway hiding a wall of graffiti art. a nugget of gold buried in a slag heap. the hypnotic allure of the fire that consumes a village, that mindlessly destroys all in its path. the soldier on the battlefield, his chest torn open to reveal glistening insides, repulsive at first, but when you look closer, you see his heart expanding and contracting, you see the miracle that is life, and even if he is about to die, it's a miracle any of us ever lived at all.

sometimes, you must seek out that beauty. sometimes, it slams you across the face when you least expect it. the beauty of decay. the beauty of destruction. the beauty in an ugly soul.

I am willing to undertake this task, he remembers saying. the council of leaders doesn't know what happened between them all those years ago. the vulnerability he glimpsed, the beauty he knows is there.

he knows only that he's made a mistake after saying those words. perhaps there is beauty, but it is entombed in filth, in hatred, in ugliness, and he doesn't know if he can exhume it, or if it's even worth it to try.

he had gotten lucky that first time, or perhaps unlucky, that his beauty had shown itself.

—

evening.

slumped forward on his knees before her headstone, his body heat melts the snow beneath him and seeps through the fabric of his pants. he barely notices. his gaze meets the untouched collar of white that has piled up around the marker, but he doesn't register anything other than the clumsy footsteps from behind, an invasion of the somber peace that surrounds the cemetery. anger wells inside him, he wants to yell _shut up shut up shut up_ , but it dies. empty again.

the footsteps halt beside him, the figure collapses in his same position so they both kneel, facing the stone. a cloudy breath curls into the air on his periphery.

why did you follow me here, he speaks, tone flat and dead.

I owe it to you, comes the response.

this isn't real, he says. you think I'm going to give you your freedom, and you're just using me. you can't understand — you can't feel.

he knows the last sentence is a lie, and he wants to believe that the rest are as well.

so easy to give into failure. so easy for his optimism to hone in on that beauty, nonetheless difficult to tune out everything else.

you see more than that, says the other. is he other anymore? yes, but there are those parts of them that match. he feels as though they have known each other for years, a relationship of intimacy that somehow missed all the basic information. familiar, yet alien.

I see that I can't rely on your word, is all he says in reply.

that is only natural, he responds. but what is there that I can do to you? you have me under guard, though I lack the ability to fight in the first place. I have none of my old allies, nor power of any sort. yet you give me this new opportunity out of your own goodness.

I wish I could believe you, he murmurs, but after what you've done, you don't deserve trust.

—

morning.

the whipping winds hurl flurries of flakes past the doorway where he stands. the dwelling feels empty, of course it does, as his children have opted not to return home yet, and there is always her absence. it hangs heavy in the air, powerful now that he is here again.

cold bites at his extremities even as he pulls the blanket tighter around him. the sight of the lone figure toiling across the campsite triggers flashes of memory, the two of them, naked, heat radiating off the other's skin, slick sweat trailing down flesh. he doesn't regret it, not completely anyway, but the thought is enough for him to furrow his brow and scowl. it can't happen again — he stands by that. he doesn't know if he could make himself even if he wanted to.

he sheds his blanket and pulls on warm clothes to venture outside. the figure doesn't know how to do the work he's been assigned, of course he doesn't, how would a man who'd lived his whole life in luxury be able to rebuild half the town on his own?

wordlessly, he crosses camp to where the other struggles with a set of poles and an animal pelt. he's likely holding back a snarky comment as he stares at him approaching, but he, too, remains silent.

cold, isn't it, he remarks, making pointless small talk. the other has been either oddly silent or a source of pure exasperation up until this point, and he wants to be rude right back, but he follows it up with, don't worry, you'll get used to it. besides, it's not usually this bad.

they haven't spoken much since he'd agreed to host him, but after all, he has been able to bring out the beauty in him with empathy and kindness before, maybe it will work again.

he might have imagined it, but the other nods in agreement. more likely, he's ignoring him.

let me help you, he offers.

I don't need it, he snaps.

too proud, too bad, he says. I'm going to do it anyways.

—

evening.

I hadn't been back here yet, he says numbly.

in truth, he was visiting out of guilt. that bond with the other, as infuriating a man he might be, holds fast, and he must cling to the memory of her. there is something between them, and he doesn't know what it is. he won't let it be genuine affection, not friendship, and he won't let him be a substitute either. never again. he cannot be tricked. he cannot be fooled. not by false empathy, not by mind games.

it would be so easy…

…he crashes into the other's arms, something about the cemetery sobering for them both, a shared experience that goes beyond just the two of them, radiates into hidden parts of their lives. heat still dances on his skin, breath is hot against his ear, and he's flashing back again, feeling the other's burning lips against his, feeling them and pretending they're hers, feeling hers, pretending they're his. pulled tight against the other in the graveyard, he inhales, the other's smoky, decaying scent blocking out that of the fresh snow.

it's not real, it's a trick, it's manipulation, he reminds himself, but the other's embrace is comforting, and even if it's not meant for him, it's proof that he once felt for somebody.

is it not?

it is hypnotic, like the beauty of the fire that consumes and kills, but he breaks free.

you're not allowed to touch me like that again, he snarls. maybe there is something good in you, maybe some of your intentions are genuine, but I don't care because it's a risk I can't take. I am a person whose faith you must earn.


	3. 2 beautiful fire

2\. beautiful fire

morning.

oars slice into the sea, silent but for the trickle and splash of the water dripping from them as they meet air again. wind cries in the distance like a long forgotten spirit guarding the looming icebergs, but it's background noise to the occasional cracking and splitting of ice crashing into the ocean.

this place is haunted. by what, he doesn't know. maybe it's outside, maybe it's in his head, but then again, there's not much that's real anymore.

the other, behind him, pays no heed to the smothering stillness. likely thinks he's above it, above the spirits and above nature even though he's been put in his place. he's let him out of his line of sight as a signal that he wants to trust him, but he's acutely aware of the warm breath against the back of his neck as the other leans forward for his canteen. the other either can't sense his discomfort, or he chooses to ignore it.

he doesn't understand why he's let the other so close to him — physically, yes, but each day he wedges himself further and further into his thoughts, his mind, a hook digging deeper with each effort to tear it free. the other is the cause of all this, why he can't sleep, the beautiful flames that consume the town, the dagger that rips open the soldier's chest to expose frail, screaming life on the inside.

he wants to believe that the other is a victim too, brainwashed, manipulated, just doing what he thought was right. it makes him feel naive, but he can't let himself be, they are both adults, grown men who have done unspeakable things because they were molded to believe that they must.

there's no cure like being understood.

—

evening.

he's racing across snow, boots breaking ice, throwing up splashes of half-melted slush. the shouting, the figures on the edges of his vision, they are a blur to him as he maneuvers across the barren landscape.

his nimbleness as he swiftly traverses the icy terrain, it all comes back, muscle memory. the other's inevitable nature, it has come back too.

the beautiful fire that consumes the town.

—

night.

did you do it? he screams. he's ready to flay this disgrace, this monster of a human being, but more than that, he blames himself for bringing this man home with him. indirectly or not, it's all his fault. it's fear, not anger, that drives him.

the other slumps limply against the wall, wheezing and unable to answer. he wants to kick him across the face, get him to talk, but he reins in his restless agitation.

he spits back a venomous reply in between coughs, you are foolish to even consider myself as an option. why would I destroy my own work, let alone trap myself inside a burning building? I do not have a death wish. if I did, I would not be here.

—

dawn.

the bed opposite from his is a new installment. they lie facing away from each other, separated by the gulf that is the floor, might as well be a deep, snaking canyon in his mind.

touch. his skin aches.

away, it wasn't a concern, there were larger things to worry about. here, it's home, and everything that was should still be there to welcome him back. the longer he spends in the town, the more what should be right feels wrong, what's wrong feels right. brothers in arms dead, children off to deal with something more important than this pitiful, frozen village.

and, of course, as always, she is not here.

but the other is, and he can't get it off his mind. he hates his residual desire more than his sympathy. he could split the job, get away from him, but he is selfish. or perhaps he thinks that he has simply not suffered enough.

bleary-eyed, he rolls out of bed. he watches the other slumbering peacefully for a moment, won't let himself be fooled by appearances. how average he looks among the sheets that obscure his body, most of his face. how he could be anyone. how inviting it would be, if that were true.

he permits himself to place a hand on the other's shoulder. get up, he says. I'm taking you hunting with my men.

—

evening.

this shouldn't be happening. how is anything dry enough to burn here? how would the other have started one to begin with, he's refused to learn how to build one anyway. it would hurt his foolish pride.

gray smoke curls into the sky and stings his eyes, and he's flashing back, paralyzed. this new portion of the village, the one they've been rebuilding, is up in flames, and it threatens to spread to the whole town. the other, most likely, is long gone.

 _mistake, mistake, mistake_ rings in his head and again he's giving orders, making unfiltered decisions without any conscious part of him approving. I want men searching the perimeter, I want the fire out, we _must_ find him, the culprit _must_ be caught.

later, he'll reconsider, but in the moment, there is no doubt in his mind that the other is the perpetrator. nowhere is safe, not here, not the rest of the world. every place is a hunting ground. he's never gotten over any of it, try as he might. sometimes, you just have to give in and bend to the memory's will.

smoke clogs his nostrils and his eyes are tearing up, he's rushing into the inferno, doesn't care if he lives or dies. he doesn't know who the other is anymore, in his head the identities he's assigned him overlap and merge into one. the echo of her, the heartless mass murderer, the human he knows is inside.

fire scorching his fingertips, muddy, melting slush beneath his feet, oppressive heat filling the air and raking his skin, he finds the other barely responsive on the floor of a tent.

let him burn, screams a voice from the back of his mind. the other's eyes are dull when they lock gazes, neck hardly able to support his head. not pitiful, not weak, but human. mortal. he's seeing her again, and forcing back his misgivings, he drags the figure from the flaming tent, into a shallow, filthy puddle between dwellings. he shouldn't be as worried as he is, and he realizes how selfish he is, selfish to subject his people to so much as this man's presence. he's warping his own perceptions to view the other as better than he truly is, and it's not helping him overcome the traumas that haunt him.

it's not worth it, and he leaves him in the puddle, unconscious. he has to put his people first, and he rejoins them to extinguish this entity of marvelous destruction.

—

morning.

the second boat pulls up beside them. they've been keeping their distance, and he wonders what they want. wide, staring eyes and hushed whispers tell him that they're talking about the other and have finally gathered the courage to approach them. he's able to catch their gaze before the other notices.

we're heading east, nylas says, to the peninsula. hopefully the fish'll be biting. you're free to come along if you'd like. it would be unwise to stay alone with _him._

he scowls. I'm perfectly capable of handling the _prisoner_ by myself, he spits. he's angrier than he should be, and he doesn't know if it's because of this implication of weakness, or the insinuation that the other means him harm.

chief teach you how to make a fire yet? yana asks, the first time any of his people, aside from himself, have addressed the other of their own free will. neglect, forced interaction when absolutely imperative — but now they have graduated to taunts.

insolent boy, hisses the other. in any other circumstance, I would be the one teaching _you_ a lesson.

yana smiles uncomfortably, a single nervous bark escaping his mouth.

that was unnecessary, he says, both of you. nylas, we'll be fine on our own.

—

night.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. the other is the only person with him, but he's apologizing to everyone at once. hands tangled in his hair, bodies pressed together, he won't let himself look him in the eye. his heart thuds in his chest, is it the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, or their proximity on the very same bed they shared years ago?

he knows he isn't seeing what's there, but he lets himself wallow in this half-illusory view of the person he's made the mistake of letting back into his life.

weren't you the one who said I couldn't touch you? the other asks. he can hear the smirk in his words, feel his face move against his own to accommodate the smug grin. it means he's back to normal, relatively unharmed, at least.

forget it, he says, just for today.

thank you, he responds, words soft. the other's hand sneaks underneath his shirt, caressing his back, and it sends a tremor of fear and ecstasy through his body. he hates that he feels this way, wants him on some level, wants to be with one of the identities he's assigned him when he knows that his many faces are inseparable. the other speaks again, thank you for saving me… for believing me when no one else would have.

he wishes that he could say that there's something off in his tone, but it's genuine, caring. I'm going to investigate, he promises. an attempt to frame you — and an attempt on your life — it cannot go unpunished.

he inhales the scent of smoke that clings to both of them, beneath that of the mud and the icy water. the beautiful fire that consumes the town — it will be his.


	4. 3 what life has left

3\. what life has left

dusk.

how would I know what was going on in his mind? I don't know how a psychopath thinks! why? because I'm _not one!_ you let a man like that into our homeland, knowing everything he's done, and you don't expect him to destroy everything he touches? even if he wasn't trying to kill us, we're not even human to him. if he has to live among us, demoted to 'our level,' then why would he want to live anymore at all?

yana's words are a slap across the face — a wakeup call, but he only wants to return to his slumber. they ring in his head even with his face buried in the other's chest.

the burden of leadership is still his, and on top of his broken mental state, it wears him down. unable to hold on, he wants someone else to guide him, and indeed, someone else is there. the music drifts inside from the center of camp, muffled and faint. one thing is immediate, and it is the other, his gentle breathing, his smell, his warmth, the feeling and the shape of his form. him.

he shouldn't have let his guard down, let alone permit himself to feel safe in the other's arms, but the heat radiating from his skin lulls him into a drowsy comfort, and the embrace reminds him, reminds him of his night with the other. it's no longer the night with the memory of her. she is gone, and it will never be right, but he has accepted it. the other is here, alive and present and _real_ against his body.

real. _is_ it real? he's beginning to see the other as an anchor. even if his true self remains nebulous, physically, he is here. real.

he lets go of identity. his own, the other's. there is only a gap in his life that needs to be filled. the drums outside slow, the rhythmic clapping with it. a somber melody weaves its way through the percussion, and he finds himself swaying back and forth in time with the music, in time with the other. he glances up as they link hands, and the other's eyes are shut, lost in peaceful sorrow.

it's as if his world hasn't fallen apart. isn't splitting at the seams.

you let a man like that into our homeland, knowing everything he's done, and you don't expect him to destroy everything he touches? even if he wasn't trying to kill us, we're not even human to him, screams yana in his head.

he ignores it.

—

morrow.

the torched houses still exhale wisps of smoke, embers sizzling amid ash and charred, unrecognizable material. he's got a bag of tools slung over his back, and the other carries the supplies for rebuilding. dawn breaks and casts its bright hues across the ice.

he doesn't feel strange about what's happening between them. while his own people question his authority, the other doesn't disrespect him, in spite of the accusations he faced for the burning of the village. deep down it still nags him, the possibility that the other is manipulating him, but he shoves it away, into his subconscious.

in silence, they work. there should be tension between them, but he's at ease, a rare occurrence for him. the frigid, biting air clears his mind, his only focus on his labor and the subtle, fleeting expressions of the other. he's starting to sweat under his parka and he can't help it, can't help but to remember their night. over the years following, it hadn't been a particularly bothersome flashback, one that took a backseat to the world burning town by town, city by city, or the soldier with his chest ripped open, heart still beating — futile, all futile. now it's all he can think about.

—

night.

the fingers play at his waist, brushing away fabric to meet bare skin. he is comfortable, but his heart hammers, and he knows the other can feel it. his eyes are shut. just like last time, he doesn't want to look at his betrayal, but the image of his face swims in his mind when last time, it had been her. he almost doesn't want it to be her anymore.

the hand trails along his side to cup the back of his neck. breath tickles his cheek, then he feels it in his ear as lips trail along the underside of his jaw. something between desire and fear churns in the pit of his stomach, and a deep sigh catches in the other's throat, one he can hear his voice in as he exhales. the music outside pounds in time with his heartbeat.

he can hardly restrain his own breathing when the mouth opens against his neck. he crumbles to the touch, he needs this, he needs to lose control because the pressure is too much, too much for him.

guide me, he whispers.

—

evening.

he can't leave the other alone with him getting in trouble. nylas, yana, and the rest reek of mistrust, he sees it in their eyes. let him be and neglect a menace to their village. watch over him, and they'll see him grow more attached. either way, he loses.

the other doesn't retaliate when yana strikes him. he's already got a gash across his cheek, and yana awkwardly cradles an injured arm, face splattered with flecks of blood.

the other is as broken as he is, and he is as broken as the other. yana is the only one spitting curses and clenching his fists — returning from the war has only made him angrier, more impulsive, instead of slowly wearing at his stability.

he steps in to separate them wordlessly. he's beginning to regret bringing the other back with him, finds himself equally irked by both of them.

yana, go home, he speaks flatly. the young warrior protests, but he cuts him off. I'll deal with this, he says. from the corner of his eye, he watches yana pick up his spear with that same arm he was cradling, then wince and look over his shoulder, as if to ensure that he saw this alleged wound in action, impairing him.

he doesn't have the energy to address it, only turn his gaze to meet the other's. his insides squirm at the cold dead stare, and he looks away submissively. raising a hand to the other's face, he uses his sleeve to dab away the blood the trickles down his cheek.

I know what they want, he murmurs — they want him gone. he continues, but I don't know what _you_ want.

the other is silent for a long moment as tension mounts between them. finally, he answers, I want whatever life has left to offer.

the cryptic reply makes him crack a feeble smile. he says, well, down here, there's not much.

you are clearly unhappy here… who is making you stay? asks the other humorlessly.

no one is — this is what I do. he lets out a sharp laugh, the promise of different lives calling him. free of reminders, in death or in life. yet he clings to the other, the rotting heart of his problems. they say you can overcome your fears by facing them.

his fingers slow as they reach the corner of the other's mouth. there could be more, says the other, even if you were to remain here. they don't deserve a leader as compassionate as you… they don't understand.

the other tells him exactly what he wants to hear. the backlash he receives for showing kindness to another human would infuriate him, if he weren't so drained of will and drive. there's only emptiness waiting to be filled, and his core… standing before him. the possibility of insincerity flashes in his mind, and he jerks his hand away from the other's face and scans the ice and half-built dwellings in hopes that no one has seen their intimate moment. it's the last thing he needs.

his sudden panic deflates, yet its traces linger. the other's touch leaves an itching, burning trail up his neck, along his jaw, until it reaches his chin and tilts his head up so they cannot escape one another's eyes.

I know you are doing all you can in such a difficult situation, the other speaks. his voice drips with uncharacteristic tenderness when he says, you know, I don't deserve you. you make me feel almost lucky to have lost my past, my ambitions.

he focuses on the word _almost_ , but doesn't respond.

then am I what life has left to offer? he asks.

he shuts his eyes when the other leans in. his knees almost give out, it is both the happiest and most forlorn moment he has experienced since arriving home. an undercurrent of impending terror tugs him away from their kiss, and his frenzied survey of the area for any onlookers halts when the other answers him.

he speaks, _yes_.


	5. 4 what death has to offer

4\. what death has to offer

morrow.

if he stares at the sky for too long, he feels as if the ground is moving beneath his feet. the clouds gliding over the lifeless towers of ice seem to hang in place, providing the illusion that he is adrift at sea, as if on an island or a boat.

it's fake. he can distinguish that much of falsehood from reality despite how his is judgment continuously slipping out of his grasp until soon it will be lost. something deep within his mind doubts what he knows to be true, and that same part of him convinces him that the lies he hears are honest.

how has the readjustment been for you, yana? he asks. he needs to get away from the other, speak with someone else. his skin prickles and guilt writhes in his gut when he thinks about falling asleep in his embrace, an incident that had been pleasant when it had occurred, but reflecting on it now standing side by side with his brother in arms, it drags his conscience through the snow.

I don't know, yana says, avoiding eye contact. his shoulders jerk up in a quick, graceless shrug, one that cues him in that he wants to exit the conversation more than it does answer his question. frost crunches under their boots, and the seawater laps softly at the shores. he finds himself enjoying the day, for once.

it doesn't seem like you're doing too well, he says, unwilling to let their discussion die this quickly.

yeah, well, I might be if you hadn't brought you-know-who home for reasons beyond me, he retorts. he carelessly sends a clump of snow flying from his the toe of his shoe and into the ocean.

I don't want to talk about him, I want to talk about you, he says.

getting sick of him, I hope, he mutters. they haven't locked gazes since he first asked yana on the walk.

I know it's a lot to ask, but if you could just —

yeah, you're right, it _is_ a lot to ask, yana interrupts.

he sighs. it's a sound of exasperation, but more than that, defeat. I'm sorry, he says. I just thought it would be the right thing to do.

—

evening.

I suppose I'd better teach you so yana will have one less thing to taunt us about, he says. he barely notices how he says _us_ , it feels natural to lump himself in with a man no one else is willing to give a second chance.

at this point, anyways.

I already know how, the other rumbles. I didn't want to alarm anyone… you're dealing with enough as it is.

the information comes as a shock, even though it should not be. he doesn't know why the other is sharing this with him now, he's just asking to be put back on the list of suspects for the burning of the village. he's already decided that the perpetrator wasn't the other, and he has a pretty good idea of who it really was.

then perhaps, is it a token of trust?

he hesitates, unsure if he should accept the offer. can you… can you show me? he stutters.

they have been digging all day, laying the foundations for the new buildings, but the other does not complain, only hoists up his shovel again and hews a rough, uneven pit into the rocky ground. he strips off his parka, then his red and gold shirt, the only article of clothing they've let him bring from home. throughout the whole process, he's making intent eye contact, his stare exuding an almost predatory gleam.

the other shivers as the freezing gusts sweep over his bare chest, but it is the only weakness he permits to seep into his display. he drops the garment in the jagged hole, and before he even strikes the two rocks together, the air warms.

he finds himself sweating, wondering sheepishly why he has never paid mind to the other's appearance before — he was too busy wishing that it _wasn't_ the other. their clammy skin pressed together, hard muscle where softness should be, crying out uncontrollably, shamelessly as the three overlapping identities took charge of their unforgivably intimate act years past. the mistake to which he succumbed this morning burns out the earlier memory, far more vivid and fresh. the yearning and desperation — he still doesn't know if it was meant for him, or if he is still filling a gap for the other. and if it wasn't for him, whether it's for the other's _her_ or if he just needs _anybody_ to love him, he can't tell either.

his eyes can't follow what happens next, it doesn't look quite right. he sees only that there are no sparks, and then there are, and then that the crumpled red pile of cloth in the pit is burning. the fabric curls, the crimson shriveling away into brown, then black, then the gray of ash.

the other hasn't stopped looking at him, his breathing heavy as if he had just completed an endeavor of the physical variety, not of the mental, not of the emotional.

all right, he squeaks out. I suppose I have nothing to teach you.

—

morrow.

yana doesn't say it, but he knows what he's thinking. ever since returning home, he's been losing his touch. his authority is slipping just as much as his grip on reality, and perhaps, dare he say it, this insanity, is the reason why.

you ever think what it would've been like to have been born somewhere else? yana ponders. he's sitting on the stone that juts out of the ice, where he and the other had made their fire the previous day. they've paused, and yana is tossing a rock from palm to palm, his gaze never once leaving its trajectory.

I guess I have, he answers. yana can sense his distress, how the barren, vacant landscape sucks the life force from him, or maybe he's simply expressing his own similar feelings about this place they inherited.

it might be time to move on, he suggests.

yana is an insolent, rebellious boy — he won't give him the honor of being called a man — but he's neither disobedient nor stupid enough to be more than passive aggressive about a matter like this.

he's supposed to react, explode in anger, but he can never tell what will set him off or what won't these days. I know, he says. I'm by no means an elder, but it might be time to take a break, at the very least. readjustment has been hard for all of us, whether you'll admit it or not.

you didn't have to make it harder, yana grumbles.

the hiss of impatience leaks into his tone. all right, he says, I should've thought it through and consulted the rest of the tribe, but what's done is done.

you can either lead your people, yana says, or you can make sure _he_ doesn't burn the village to the ground again. you can't do both.

something snaps far too soon, rationality forgotten.

I won't tolerate this! he's screaming now, can't have a goddamn talk with someone he's fought with for years, side by side, without it devolving into a question of qualification, or authority, without the other creeping in — the other creeping in just as he has done with every other aspect of his life. he rages, I am your chieftain, and you will listen to me, and you will respect me and my decisions.

yana flings the rock away. their glares burn into each other for the first time. get us all killed, then, he says. I won't be here to die because of your ignorance. you think I am the naive one? well, take a look at yourself.

yana is about to get up and storm off when he halts him with a loaded accusation. we both know who _really_ set that fire. who instigated that fight the other day. you are nothing more than a coward… I used to think more of you, you know.

he doesn't respond to the heated words that ought to set him on the defensive. he only says, just know that I once thought more of you, too.

—

night.

the second bed lies empty on the other side of the room. the lamp burns low, and he stares into space, mind going everywhere and nowhere at once. it's too hot in here, but he doesn't want to move, throw off his blanket.

unceremoniously, the door swings open, and he hates how the traces of energy and joy course through him when the other enters. he slits his eyes and pretends to sleep, listening intently to the sound of the other preparing for bed and watching his silhouette move about in the dim, flickering light.

the other pauses his routine to gaze over his still body. his heart almost stops as the impassive gaze lingers on him, then the features soften. the other sits on the edge of his bed, awaiting permission to join him. he finally works up the nerve to lock eyes with him and slide up against the headboard.

did you… want something? he asks timidly.

the other slips into bed next to him wordlessly. his heart is pounding now, and he's trying to repress the influx of intrusive memories to instead focus on the situation at hand. he forgets how to say no when the other encloses him in his arms from behind, naked chest pressing up against his back, radiating heat.

the other doesn't make any further advances, just stays like that, holding him. he feels his heart rate dropping, breathing returning to normal, exhaustion taking him again.

you're burning up, he says sleepily, the tension seeping from his body. he slumps into the other's chest. he continues, are you sick?

I'm all right, he murmurs. you worry too much.

I don't worry _enough_ , he points out. I'm letting _this_ happen… he gestures to the two of them, his apprehension building again.

what we're doing isn't wrong, the other insists. maybe he imagines it, but there's a note of uncertainty in his voice. lips caress his neck from behind and warm breath ghosts over his skin.

I… I want to make them understand that, he says, even though he feels a scorching shame in the pit of his stomach when he remembers that he is putting a former enemy before his own people, if not in one way, then in another.

they ought to obey your orders, the other speaks. they have listened to your wisdom and guidance for years, so why now do they choose to rebel when you have naught but good intentions? it's disrespectful. disgraceful.

the other's hands unclasp from in front of him and start to languidly massage his shoulders, slipping beneath his shirt to work at exposed flesh. a satisfied, unwanted moan slips out as the fingers dig deeper and travel down his back.

I still think about that night, the other whispers, low and husky, right in his ear.

he shivers, his breath hitches, his blood rushes. so do I, he manages to squeak out.

I don't imagine her anymore, he continues. I think about you… I want it to be you.

I… he begins.

he can't force himself to say it, that he wants it to be not her but the other too, as much as he knows it to be true. if he speaks it aloud, then it is real.

it is the only way he has to tell truth from falsehood, and he denies it.

say it for me, prompts the other, please. if I can know that you feel that way… that is all I need. you are what life has left.

I want you, he admits. it is barely a whisper, and he stumbles over his clumsy exit to the conversation, I… I… we'd best get to sleep. he's already said more than he wanted, and he has to stop it from escalating, as much as his body craves it. the memories are playing, looping, and there is nothing he can do to banish them from his mind.

thank you, he says. the other kisses his cheek and squeezes his shoulders once before wrapping him in a possessive, protective embrace. behind them, the lamp dies, and he falls asleep in the other's arms, exhaustion lulling him into security until he feels at peace. if this is what life has left, then maybe he no longer wants to know what death has to offer.


	6. 5 union

5\. union

morrow.

if you say a _single_ word about this to _anyone_ else, he hisses, leaning in close and forcefully seizing a clump of yana's hair, then I will have you _killed_.

you can't, you can't do that, yana stutters. his eyes are wide with terror and his lip trembles as he uselessly recoils from the threat. he finds that he likes the fear he inspires, likes how yana writhes and struggles in his grasp.

who says I can't? he spits. I can do _whatever_ I want, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.

—

dusk.

the freezing water envelops him, and his mind clears. the shouts of children playing, of indistinct chatter drift over on the breeze. the aromas of the fish cooking mingle with that of the crisp, icy air, and color dwindles from the sky, rainbow hues slowly, subtly fading to a deep blue. alone beneath the dock, he lets his element cleanse him.

if he stays here for too long, he will go numb, but it's better than feeling.

he's too caught up in his trance to open his eyes when the footsteps approach. he can already sense who it is from draft of warmth that accompanies him. something soft drops onto the hard-packed ground, and there's a splash as company arrives.

he permits himself to glance up, and the other is already staring at him with that emotionless expression. you don't mind if I join you, he says. it's almost a question, but the wording and tone make it just clear enough that it is a statement, a decision already made.

I was going to leave in a few minutes, he says in hopes of exiting the conversation. they are both naked, as the small cove is a bathing spot he frequents.

too cold, even for you? the other cracks a faint smile.

if I don't get out soon, he answers awkwardly, then yes.

take your time, he says. you've not been able to relax in far too long, I can tell.

the water heats. just like the other's campfire, there is nothing, and then suddenly there is, and something about it is _wrong_.

his mouth goes dry, his instinct is to haul himself from the sea and dash to shore, but the flash of terror paralyzes him. how did you, how did you do that, he stammers.

I can trust you, can't I? the other asks innocently. his voice drops, oozes with tenderness. he speaks: right?

he tries to swallow, tries to nod. he can't tell if he's scared of the other himself, or scared of his feelings.

the other wades towards him. if his touch will subdue or agitate is anybody's guess. a hands extends, and a practiced brush of the fingers along the back of his head, as if he is calming a wild animal, accomplishes what it is supposed to.

it's behind me… I promise, the other breathes, their foreheads resting against one another. that you have given me this much of a chance is a blessing. I know you want this as much as I do.

I want this… the words claw their way up his throat without his consent, is it a bewildered echo or confirmation?

the other does not wait for his confusion to dissipate. a sudden heat surrounds him, he feels as if the water is boiling and everywhere their skin meets is burning. the other gently, wordlessly encourages him to reciprocate the kiss, slow, deep. he pulls him closer to his body, hands tangling in his hair, basking in the heat coming off of him.

it is intoxicating. it is what he needs. it is _right._

a shout, closer and louder than those in camp, tears him away from the blissful moment, the act that lets him forget himself, and doubts build and churn in his gut and tumble out. he tears himself free of the other's arms to check — has anybody seen them? — and his panic dies down when he spots no one else by the cove. still, he can't ignore the tension and fear.

we can't do this here, he whispers. it's too tempting to give in to the broad, bare chest, the mussed hair, the pining gaze, but he doesn't want to wait any longer. this could be the moment he needs to deny the other, halt the escalation — somehow he doesn't see himself getting out of this.

—

morrow.

he's let go of yana now, and yana's looking at him the way he should've been all along: with fear and subservience.

the other has taught him more about power in one night than he knew his whole life. if you are afraid to exert it, what's the point of having it in the first place?

you wouldn't, yana's saying, shaking his head, eyes begging. you aren't that type of person — he's corrupting you, he's —

 _enough_ about him, he snarls, cutting him off. I will make you a deal, and you will say _yes._ I will not punish you for starting that fire, and you will not speak a word to a single soul about my affair. is that understood?

you have _no_ evidence that I started it, yana nearly screams.

 _silence_ , he commands, I don't _need_ any. my word is all the evidence required. somewhere inside, a place inaccessible to him in his current state, he knows he is being irrational, he doesn't have that kind of dominion anyways, and if he has yana killed or the news gets out, either way, it's over for him. his only means of executing his will lie with the other, whose powers are returning. how, he doesn't know or care.

the one thing of importance is that they are at his disposal.

—

night.

it's happening again, and it's not her.

he doesn't want it to be her.

the other pushes him up against the headboard, stroking him as their aching jaws work in unison. breathlessly, they break apart, and he catches the insatiable gleam of lust in the other's eye for just an instant before he flips him onto his stomach, bending him over the side of the bed, and that one instant is enough for the other's name to slide from his lips. he has not spoken it before, never the word without the preceding title, and certainly not ever like this, a desperate plea, a moan for more, an homage to the power he has over him.

the other enters him, a hand slams onto his back to hold him flat against the sheets. the physical and the emotional swirl wildly, violently, in his head, overwhelming, and he lets go of himself.

say it again, the other demands, I want to hear you say my name.

it leaks from him again without thinking, without permission. somewhere within the maelstrom of thought and feeling he remembers screaming her name the first time with the other, now it is his name that is the default.

you are mine, the other breathes, shoving into him harder. he feels as though his insides are coming undone, the pain that rips through him mingling with the thrill of losing control. it is exactly what he needs, to have the burden of leadership lifted, and it is exactly what the other needs, to feel in charge again.

I belong to you, he chokes out. his face pressed into the mattress, he can't tell if the other hears him, so he repeats it, he says it mindlessly again and again and again in time with each ruthless thrust, _I'm yours, yours, yours._

he doesn't realize he's started to cry until the other climaxes and the storm of conflicting emotions calms enough for him to think again. he hates it, he wants the lack of control back, he wants the wash of sensation to take him again because one of the feelings amidst the mess was happiness.

his legs are shaking and he aches, liquid trickles uncomfortably down his thighs. the other pulls him into a tight embrace, and he cowers against his chest. the quick kiss on the top of his head sends a short bolt of affection through him, and it's this more than the sex that reminds him how many promises he's broken, promises to himself, promises to his people.

he smiles to himself in spite of it, the moment of shame dissolving in the face of the overwhelming peace and acceptance and warmth that settles over him.

that was great, he whispers.

I'm glad you're not afraid anymore, the other murmurs in return. the words have an ominous ring to them, their vagueness threatening, but it's lost on him. to him, they carry appreciation, confirmation. love.

yes, there is the obvious joy resulting from their physical union and the tenderness of after, but he pulls up another reason from the storm of thoughts and feelings.

he has overcome his fear.

—

morrow.

yesterday's ecstasy feels a faded memory when yana storms off. he watches him go until he disappears behind a tent, relieved at the silence. the anger suddenly draining from him, he crumples to his knees and slouches over on the ice. it is despair that seeps through him, not fear — it is the knowledge that he has to choose between something he once loved and the person who can fix him.

if they forget their pasts.

he could take the other and run, experience the lives that call to him. it's a childish thought, but a decision that would ultimately make everyone happy.

isn't that all anybody wants?

isn't there no other true goal?


	7. 6 rift

6\. rift

dawn.

nylas is the last one to see yana alive.

he's walking past the docks when he observes them repairing a kayak together. burning rage roils in his stomach, and he turns away, deciding that another quarrel with yana is among the last things that he wants. a wave of paranoia strikes him, what if he's telling nylas the secret over which it is worth killing him?

yana, too, pretends not to see him, but nylas's obliviousness soothes the panic thumping within his chest.

he lurches along, watching the village slowly awaken. his mood has improved since he's given in to the other, yet the curse of bittersweetness lingers. when he looks over his homeland, he feels that soon, he is leaving for a long, long time, perhaps forever. it is different from his first exit, when all he felt was a solemn sense of duty.

now, it feels right.

—

evening.

yana's body washes up with the very same kayak on which he'd been working just that morning. it is the boat that first reappears, the hull is smashed in, half-submerged and nearly brimming with ocean water.

his corpse they find nearly a mile down the beach once nylas confirms that the kayak is, in fact, the same one that he'd ridden out to sea earlier, on his own. it takes an hour for the search party to locate him, he would seem almost alive if not for the way his limp and broken body splays unnaturally across the rocks, and if not for the obvious burns blistering his flaking flesh, leaving naught but his face, frozen in a scream of primal fear, untouched.

—

morning.

the other pensively surveys the ocean from the icy bluff down the path from their tent. his silence, his strength, his calmness are all so attractive to him, but it is the small vulnerabilities he lets through that make it _real._ the slight changes in expression when he happens across a new thought, how he rubs his hands together to keep warm, his lopsided stance.

he approaches, he has just returned from his morning walk. the village is alive, back down the trail, men prepare for the hunt, on the docks by the shoreline, boats depart. below them, the restless sea rhythmically slaps against stone and stretches beyond the horizon. the other's heat is lesser today and little shivers wrack his body, so he removes his coat and drapes it over his shoulders.

thank you, he murmurs, turning his head just enough to smile at him from the corner of his eye.

he takes the other's freezing hand in both of his and leans into him. reflexively, the other wraps an arm around his back.

what's on your mind? he asks softly. the other seems unwilling to remove his gaze from the ocean, lost in thought.

for all its shortcomings, he says, it _is_ beautiful here.

I know, he whispers. he's struck with nostalgia, that feeling is back again, the one gently insisting that his time here is up. children's shouts and laughter drift up from the sea, he glances down to the sight of a group of kids venturing onto the rocks beneath the bluff from the beach. fear grips him and he wrenches away from the other, normally he would scold anyone playing in such a dangerous area, but he worries for himself instead, what if they see him?

please, the other says, relax. no one can see us. the exasperation that creeps into his tone is like a punch in the throat, and now he frets that he's done something wrong and the other is annoyed with him.

I'm sorry, he chokes out. could we maybe go back inside? yana already knows about us, and I can't have word getting out.

I'd like to stay out here, the other states firmly. his gaze rakes the skyline intently, as if he is not here to enjoy the view, but to search for something, and his words merely confirm it. to wait.

he doesn't press any further. even stronger than his desire to keep their affair hidden is his desire not to upset the other.

the close of an era is the start of a new one, the other speaks, perhaps to himself. their hands tangle again. he is starting to shiver now, without his coat, but the other's palm heats, sending warmth through his veins, across his skin, but it is not enough to reach his core.

you will join me, no? asks the other.

he fails to comprehend the meaning of the cryptic words.

in spite of it, he finds himself nodding along.

he will do anything.

—

night.

they found yana's body on the rocks, all burnt up even though he'd been killed at sea, he says. the news has shaken the entire village, and of course, the other is a prime suspect. the death threats he'd made against yana tug at his insides, guilt him further down into his dissociative spiral. he regrets everything he'd said, he regrets how it had ended between them.

the other is unperturbed. I was working all day, he says. they cannot blame me.

it's true. yana's kayak had been among the boats he and the other had watched depart from the icy bluff in the morning. then, they had gone directly to rebuild the village. while he'd left at noon to attend to different business, the other had not left the company of his work group, the handful of tribesmen who had grown to tolerate his presence.

nevertheless, he can't helped but to be unnerved by the other's complete lack of empathy. someone had died — yes, someone who had hated him and he had hated right back — yet it was as if he'd told him about an odd piece of driftwood had washed up rather than a carcass. inconsequential, trivial. a life means nothing if he can't twist it to his will.

there is so much of the other that he does not know, and he realizes that he doesn't _want_ to know it, either. he doesn't want their pasts to ruin what they have now.

no one _will_ blame you, he reassures him. there were hushed whispers of the other's name, but no one has the evidence, and no one will dare go against the chieftain's word.

it doesn't matter anyways, the other says, not for long.

—

midnight.

the arms encasing him retreat and slither away, the steady, hot breath on the back of his neck vanishes. the other rolls out of bed, donning his shoes and parka.

he's still half-asleep and too delirious to protest. without glancing back at him, the other slips through the back door and into the bright moonlight.

he waits for a moment before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and easing himself up.

he opens the back door to where the other's unmoving silhouette stands by the edge of the bluff. the possibility that he's going to jump leaves his mind as quickly as it enters, and he judges by the angle of the other's neck that he's staring out towards the horizon again. he considers joining the other at the cliff as he had done this morning, but decides against it.

though he knows that his false sense of security is a relic of a bygone childhood, it calms him to see that it's a full moon tonight, its reflection dancing and flitting across the water. starlight pierces the furthest reaches of the yawning void, where the moon's glow fades.

the weight of yana's death hits him all at once now that he is awake and remembering yesterday. he'd been figuring it out again, separating reality from falsity, but he can't anymore because everything feels _fake_ , yana's fate at the hands of an unknown perpetrator, how safe he feels in the moonlight despite his life splitting in two, wide open, how he finds himself infatuated with the most hated man in the world.

he retires to bed, wishing for the other's soothing arms around him, and he will pay for his selfishness.

for while he sleeps, a black snow falls.


	8. 7 him

7\. him

dawn.

the one to awaken him is nylas. he realizes that his bed is empty and the other is nowhere to be seen before he registers that nylas is screaming and shaking him.

he drags himself from the grip of unconsciousness, the frantic words all blurred together in his disorientation, but he reads nylas's tone.

there is fear, yes. of course there is. and there is anger. rolling waves of blame and seething fury, this is all _his_ fault, _he_ has brought this upon them.

and when he stumbles from the tent, nothing is real.

—

noon.

you could join me, you know, the other whispers into his ear. he's pinned against the wall, sweating, sweating, heart pounding, hammering. it must be the smothering heat or the other's grip around his throat or some combination, but he can't breathe, only gasp raggedly, desperately at life. a faceless warrior stands watch at the door, and he stares past the other for a brief instant to meet the dead, vacant eyes of the mask.

I could find a place for you, the other speaks, licking his lips. his skin glistens with perspiration and his face is too close, he's choking on his breath and melting beneath his gaze. you were better than them, he continues, so you won't have to die like an animal. perhaps greater things lie in your future…

he doesn't feel any different than an animal when the noises emerge involuntarily as he begs for mercy without language, to be let go, anything but this. his mind goes blank with panic, and the only reality he knows is the other's unchanging, expressionless gaze.

he cannot tell if he has been manipulated, or if this is the other's distorted, fucked up idea of love.

—

dawn.

he's frantically pulling on his boots, grabbing his spear from its resting place. the chaos outside is growing, hordes of women, children stampede past his tent in a fruitless attempt to outrun the enemy.

hurry up! nylas shouts hysterically.

he tries to speak, and his sentences come out garbled, he's unable to express the chaos storming through his head. then he manages, there's no point! we don't stand a chance. just — run.

nylas takes one last look at him, then bolts. in which direction, he doesn't see, because as soon as he steps from the tent again, the hulking ships have docked and the village is on fire. the other stands in the center of it all, but he can't bear to look any longer, can't stay any longer otherwise he'll be burnt alive. the beautiful fire consumes the town, the soldier's chest is ripped open to expose his beating heart.

now, seared into his memory instead, the other — and he has never been more other than in this moment — the other spews a vicious, corkscrewing plume of flame into the air.

this is his return.

he runs. stragglers linger behind, the slow and the weak, and they perish in the inferno. warriors sprint to their deaths, the brave and the foolish, and they die in fire.

he runs. he doesn't look back, doesn't even care. he has failed as a leader, how could he possibly fix that after what he's let happen? his own life, his own pathetic life is all that matters to him now, when he would be better off dead for the sins he has committed against the very people he swore to protect.

he runs. those that have escaped, made it this far, are looking to him for guidance and instruction, but he doesn't hear any of it. this is how it ends, and there is only one thing he can make right.

he runs. past the cacophony of voices and rows of terrified faces, he seeks isolation and finds it, he collapses in front of her stone, winded and gagging on tears. I'm sorry, he whispers, over and over. there will never be enough times he can say it.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

—

morning.

the soldiers find him cowering behind the headstone. the agonized screams of the dying drift on the gales over the wasteland, and he has heard them all, eyes shut, teeth gritted, curled into a ball with his hands over his ears.

he wishes that they would kill him on the spot, but they have orders from the other: _bring him to me alive._

on the boat, he huddles in the corner of the other's quarters. his mind refuses to process what happened, will not accept it. fragmented thoughts and memories pass through his consciousness, but he does not react to any of it.

nothing is real.

—

noon.

leave, the other says. silently, the guard turns, closes the door, and his footsteps echo down the hallway and into oblivion. the pressure on his throat lightens, vanishes, but he cannot breathe. the other, still holding him against the wall, emanates such a stifling heat that it seems as though he will combust at any instant.

why did you have to do it, he asks, barely a whisper. he cannot meet the other's eyes, yet he feels them burning into him, relishing in his vulnerability, his horror.

it was too easy not to, he says. legions remain loyal to me. your village — it may be a prison in some ways, but who was to prevent me escaping?

I trusted… he begins, but he's cut off immediately.

listen to me, the others hisses, seizing his chin, you know that I must fulfill my destiny. this was all a slight setback, and now everything is on course once again. I want to hear it… his voice drops to a dark, husky murmur, won't you be there with me?

staring into the other's eyes the first time since this unforgivable betrayal, he wishes he could say that he sees nothing in their depths. no emotion, just the cold stare with which he has been bestowed so many times.

but that would make him unfeeling. oh yes, he feels, he has known all along that he feels, from their very first night together, all those years ago. both fascination and tenderness dwell in his gaze, and it is somehow worse, so much worse, that the other believes in his own lies, can't see his own evil.

they are imperfect reflections of one another, they could've avoided it had their circumstances changed, if they'd had different lives. if they hadn't been so convinced that they were always in the right.

I can't, he forces out. I can't be there with you. you killed _all_ of them, how can you even ask that? it's so wrong, and you can't even see it. you can't even see it.

the other doesn't react when he lapses into another breakdown. maybe he was born empathically defective, and growing up broken, brainwashed, ignorant was what pushed him over the edge.

I'll ask you one more time, the other offers, won't you stay with me?

it's not a question as much as a threat, a last chance. he's suffocating on his own fear when he stammers out, I can't, I can't live with this.

the other hesitates, but it's not in his eyes, maybe he's wrong entirely, the other cannot feel, and it is all an act, all manipulation. perhaps he still has use for him, whether it's politically motivated or sexual, and that is why he still wants him.

then you don't have to, whispers the other.

he doesn't understand the meaning of those words until he can't back out. the other twists a hand through his hair and draws him in closer — there's always been something about the slow, deep kisses, especially the other's, that he can't pull away from, the longing and the sorrow intertwined, and he wonders if this feeling alone is enough to fix him, maybe he can teach himself to banish his guilt and believe in the other's creed, start the life he's wished for ever since his return.

heat roars up through his throat too soon for him to break away. the other grips both of his cheeks hard enough to pierce his skin, but it doesn't matter, the fire enters his mouth and tunnels into his core, one ugly soul infecting another. his insides ignite and the unimaginably excruciating anguish consumes his being, he wants to scream but he can't, he wants to move but he can't, he wants to think but he can't.

it is the most intense sensation he has ever experienced, and finally, something is _real_.

and it is the other.

him.

the other unhands him and he crumples to the floor, in his death throes. the fire scorches his throat and engulfs his head, his flesh blisters and peels away, he is yana, he is to be disposed of, he is weak, he is to be killed.

it's closest to death when you feel most alive.

it is pure suffering, but it is real.

it is the other, it is _him,_ who is the embodiment of wrongness, but he is real.

and then,

nothing is.

-FIN-


End file.
